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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598658">Angelite</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/velavelavela/pseuds/velavelavela'>velavelavela</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>H.I.V.E. Series - Mark Walden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Experimental Style, Poetry, Prose Poem, hey keats howdy keats wazza keats</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:28:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>525</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/velavelavela/pseuds/velavelavela</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>you think if they loved me they would say so. family is an afternoon in the sun where everyone is dead on the living room furniture. // prose poem from raven's point of view, circa teenage glasshouse years</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Angelite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i love raven, i love HIVE, thank you thank you. quote by john keats from "ode to a nightingale"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>               Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>come follow me through the brainbled streets. my rabbit paws are not loud.</p><p>i had a fox, i am a bird. my fox went by tolya i told him he is better off in an apartment with someone other than me. when i killed him, which i did not do, i held the blade in my mouth and clumb up ten stories and clumb up some more until i was high and he was small. i see snow turns to sleet and something like rain here. will something gentle wash me of my sins?</p><p>i am for the use, this is what i am for. i've slit a thousand men down their middles. i've become a music box ballerina. i am cardboard and oyster gray. i do not have a gender. i peck at corn when it falls like dull coins into my cell. i am uneven. my soul was tethered to a hand and when they took me into the cold it snapped and i screamed and that was that.</p><p>you think if they loved me they would say so. family is an afternoon in the sun where everyone is dead on the living room furniture. i have a dream where my mother and father hold me in a portrait, and i'm seeing it through the perspective of a thief. i am small and silken as a glove, my wings are tied back with ribbon. little stars are at my father's temples. my mother is a blank slate.</p><p>i do not know my birthday, i know i should know. i know everybody knows their birthday, so i make it all up. i am a flying rabbit, and the down of my wings are tufts stained with placenta on a christmas evening. my tail is short and stout. there are things about me that cannot be mended, like a deep rip in a coat's pocket, this is how i lost my virginity. my body here is not mine, so i pull on my long, lovely ears and become inside myself like i did in the darkness.</p><p>will a hound jump wherever he can reach? he tells me as i flee through the snow that a gun can be a man and a man can be a gun. i never had a chance of escaping. i will carve an eye like a turkey. i have blood thick and runny as spoonfuls of syrup on my hands, seeping through my fingers, and who is alive is no longer alive, or so life goes.</p><p>i think i was born to be marblesolid but to roll as well. when the blizzard hit that one spring i became small and remembering. his savior complex, i shall not blame myself. i blame myself anyway. god holds pistols in her hands like a revolutionary, she points them at us against the wall, me and the fox, my tolya. we exploded like jewels. he a ruby, his hands on my hands on the hilt of the sword. i am angelite.</p>
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